


Drunk Dialing

by MacPye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPye/pseuds/MacPye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the night, Lestrade gets a call from a drunk man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Dialing

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme LJ;
> 
> "Mycroft drunken dials Lestrade.
> 
> "Hello, Detective Inspector Silver Fox."

It was three a.m., and his mobile buzzed across his bedside table.

With a grunt, he turned towards it, onto his side. Blindly, he felt around on the bedside table to catch the buzzing phone.

"Yes?" D.I. Lestrade growled into the mobile, darkly dreading some weird case.

"Hello, Detective Inspector Silver Fox," said a vaguely familiar voice on the other end of the connection. There was a slight slur to it. A drunk. A drunk he knew from somewhere or something.

"Who's this?"

"I'm the Umbrella Man," the other man said, breathlessly.

"Right, good night," said Lestrade, disconnecting.

Only a few moments later, his phone buzzed again. He sighed, actually turned on his bedside lamp, and answered the call.

"You again?"

"I always watch you from a distance," the man on the other end of the line said.

"That's... creapy," said Lestrade, frowning.

"No, no," said the other man, "I only ever see you from a distance because I never have an excuse to talk to you."

Lestrade frowned some more. "What are you on about?"

"I really shouldn't be telling you this." The other man seemed almost chastised.

"No, go on, I really rather want to know who you are, now."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. "I'm really drunk," the man finally said.

"Yes, I'd gathered as much," said Lestrade. "Why?"

"Because... I was thinking of you," the man said. "And I always get a little... sad when I do."

"Thanks, I guess."

"I'm expressing myself poorly," the drunk man groaned. "I mean, I mean, you know, I mean to say, I always see you, at those crime scenes, and never talk to you. Well, I did, once, just the once, that one wee time I did talk to you."

Lestrade was actually intrigued. "Did you commit a crime and I interrogated you?"

There was a chuckle in his ear. "No, nothing of the sort. No, no, no no no."

"Er, there was a high-profile crime and you wanted to interview me?"

"You complimented me on my suit," the other man said, almost dreamily, as if lost in the recollection. "I was angry with my brother, and there you were, stepping out of the fog as if we were part of a bad romantic film, and _you complimented me on my suit_."

In a flash, Lestrade could place the voice. He remembered stepping out of the fog, guided by the distinctly recognisable sound of Sherlock Holmes' voice. He remembered the impeccable Oxford brogues, the dark blue, pinstriped, three-piece suit, the long-fingered hand resting on the curve of the cane umbrella handle. He remembered how his breath hitched as his eyes took in the ironic tilt of that mouth above the collumn of pale neck, the long nose, the sparkling, deep blue-grey eyes, the head cocked to one side. He remembered feeling hot and cold at the same time. He remembered both Sherlock and this gorgeous stranger turning to him.  
  
"That -- that's a fantastic suit," was all he'd managed, and he'd felt like a complete idiot.  
  
"Thank you, Detective Inspector," the taller man said, the tilt of his mouth increasing. "I wished I could return the compliment. However, congratulations on your face."   
  
He remembered Sherlock looking completely baffled, the man strolling off in a slightly rushed fashion, and he himself staying rooted to the spot.  _Congratulations on your **face**_?  
  
"Why congratulations on my face, though?" he now asked.  
  
"Because it's a very good one," said the drunk suit-man. "You have  _no idea_  how good."  
  
Lestrade blinked. "Well, I could say the same for you."  
  
"Could you?" the other man sounded genuinly incredulous.  
  
"Oh, yes. I mean," explained Lestrade, feeling a little flustered, "your lips were just... and, and, your eyes, well... not to mention your eyebrows!"  
  
"Your eyes are the most incredible chocolate colour I've ever seen," said the other man breathlessly.  
  
Lestrade felt even more flustered, despite the fact that he knew blushes didn't come across in a phonecall. "Right, that's it, you sober up, and tomorrow, you can come round to my office at the Yard, under the pretense of having a chat about... I don't know, Sherlock." Something went click in his head. " _Sherlock's_  your brother?"  
  
A sigh on the other end of the connection. "Unfortunately, yes."  
  
"Then you must be Mycroft," Lestrade realised, recalling what John had once told him.  _Most dangerous man you'll ever meet_ , drunk on the other end of this telephone conversation, because he couldn't find an excuse to talk to a D.I.  
  
"If I must," Mycroft admitted.  
  
"The offer still stands," Lestrade said.  
  
***  
  
Around noon on what was, technically, the same day, Donovan knocked on his open office door. "Man here to see you, sir. Says it's about the  _freak_."  
  
Lestrade's heart skipped a beat unexpectedly. "Show him in, then."  
  
Mycroft Holmes made his entrance, and Lestrade took in the sight of him, from his impeccable brogues to the slightly tilted head and the curve of that mouth.  
  
He grinned.


End file.
